David Jackson - The Helper

He watches her fight with the faucets. He can’t see where the water level is, but a mound of foam is already several inches above the rim of the bathtub. When she finally shuts off the water and turns around, she jumps when she sees him standing in the doorway, holding the pizza box.

For the first time, he’s not sure how she’ll react. Is she thinking, ‘Whoa, fella! Who said you could come in here?’ Or is this fulfilling her most outrageous porn fantasy? The one where the handsome biker drops in on the frustrated and helpless single woman and offers to tune up her sump with his crankshaft, or whatever the hell the terminology is.

Frankly, he no longer gives a shit. The game has become tiresome. It’s time to bring it to its inevitable conclusion.

‘You want some of this pizza? It’s cold, and there’s a slice missing, but you’re welcome to have some. Personally, I think it tastes like vomit.’

She tries a smile, then seems to realize it doesn’t fit the circumstances and drops it again.

‘I think you should go now,’ she says.

He hears her nervousness. Sees her discomfort.

‘You don’t want me to go. You’ve been waiting for this for a long time.’

She folds her arms. Trying to appear strong, decisive. But he sees only her admission of vulnerability.

‘Forget it, fella. Whatever you think this is, you got it wrong.’ She snaps an arm out, aiming her finger toward the apartment door. ‘Out!’

He doesn’t budge. Of course not.

‘I can’t. Not before I give you what you need. I have to help you.’

He sees the confusion on her face, but he understands. Her prayers for aid have remained unanswered for so long that she finds it almost beyond belief that they have finally been answered. It must be such an assault on one’s perception of how the universe works.

‘I don’t need your help.’

He gives her what he believes to be a beatific smile. ‘You need help. You just didn’t expect it to come now, and from someone delivering pizzas.’ He laughs. ‘But don’t be fooled by appearances. Help is finally here. All you have to do is accept it.’

Her eyes dart, and he realizes she isn’t going to take his advice. Sadness overwhelms him. She is so fucked up, she is incapable of appreciating the significance of this moment.

‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I want you the fuck out of here. Now!’

He stands his ground. Maintains his smile of serenity.

She storms toward him. ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’

He sidesteps a little, creating an opening in the doorway she can squeeze through. He waits for her to increase her pace toward the escape route he has just made for her. Waits for her to come almost level with him. .

His left hand leaves the pizza box. He brings it upwards at great speed, his palm open. He drives the V-shape formed between his thumb and his index finger hard into her throat.

She staggers back, clutching at her neck. She opens her mouth and makes sounds like a cat with a furball as she sticks out her tongue and gasps for air.

Sorry, Tabitha, he thinks. No air today.

He drops the box and closes the gap. Puts a hand to her face. Forces her backwards. Her legs connect with the edge of the bathtub and over she goes. There is a massive splash as she plunges into the water, and a huge foamy wave rolls over the sides of the tub and onto the floor.

He thrusts his hands into the water. Finds her shoulders and leans on them. But she fights him, and she is much stronger than he expected. She draws on those reserves of in extremis strength that only those who are fighting death itself can tap. It surprises him that she actually manages to raise her face above the suds and push her legs and buttocks over the rim of the tub. He grunts as he applies more force to her shoulders, driving her under again.

Her legs still protrude from the water. They kick wildly and with force. Her robe comes open, exposing her nakedness. Her arms flail. He has to hold his face away from those clawing fingers. Her hands scrabble for purchase, but all they find is the smoothness of the wall tiles. Her nails break as they catch on the grouting.

She takes an age to die.

When he is certain she has gone, he removes his arms from the water. Rivers gush from both sleeves of his leather jacket. He looks down at himself and sees that he is sopping wet. In hindsight, he thinks maybe this wasn’t the best way to do things.

He grabs two white fluffy towels from the rail and spends a few minutes drying himself off. He knows he cannot hang around much longer because the real pizza delivery guy will be arriving soon.

He takes one last look at his handiwork. Tabitha’s naked lower half still hangs over the edge of the tub, the rest of her buried beneath the bubbles.

He tried to tell her why he’d come here. I’m really in over my head , is what he said. But what was really ironic was the way she came back with an even better line: I know what it’s like to be out of my depth . Priceless!

He picks up his motorcycle helmet and pizza box and heads for the apartment door. His shoes squelch with each uncomfortable step.

Great, he thinks. You try to help someone, and this is what you get.

Some people are so damned ungrateful.

‘Nice position,’ says Kravitz.

‘Nice,’ says Folger.

The two Homicide detectives are staring thoughtfully at the visible half of the murder victim, draped over the edge of the bathtub. Around them, other cops and techs swarm like ants — busy, busy, busy. But Kravitz and Folger manage to rise above it all. They see their roles here as ones of authority. They need to be seen as calm and in control. The fulcrum of all the activity, if you will. Or the hub. Or the linchpin. In any case, the bit that doesn’t waste energy flapping around like the lesser mortals here.

‘I don’t think I ever saw a DOA in this particular position before,’ says Kravitz.

‘Me either. Certainly draws the eye, don’t it?’

‘That it does. Quite the focal point. I’m thinking of suggesting it to my wife.’

‘You are?’

‘Certainly. For one thing, the height is exactly right.’

As he says this, Kravitz puts his hands out in front of him, as if imagining holding onto his wife’s hips, and gently pulsates his groin. In and out. In and out.

‘Yeah, the height,’ says Folger with obvious distaste, since any use of the word in his presence tends to be pejorative. His own contribution to the pleasure of any woman in the position now under discussion would have to be strictly oral, unless he brought a stepladder.

‘And the angle is perfect. Both for me and for her.’

‘For your wife too?’

‘Absolutely. She’s suffered from lower back pain for years. I think this would do her the world of good. Much better than those balls she keeps rolling around the house on.’

‘Your wife rolls around the house on balls?’

‘Well, ball, singular. You know, one of those big-ass balloon things for exercises? I’m convinced that regular adoption of the bath-based posture being demonstrated for us by this young lady here would be much more beneficial than any amount of ball-supported locomotion.’

Folger nods with enthusiasm. ‘Plus,’ he says, perhaps too hastily, ‘you wouldn’t have to look at her face.’

Kravitz turns a stony glare on his shorter compatriot.

‘What are you saying about my wife?’

Only then does Folger seem to realize what he has just said. ‘Uhm, I have a thing about people looking at me while I’m doing it.’

‘An audience, you mean?’

‘No. I mean the female. I don’t like to make eye contact. I find it puts me off my stride. For you I’m sure it’s not a problem. Especially with someone as attractive as your wife.’